


Courageous Trinity

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the fighting ends after the July Revolution in 1830, Combeferre doubts himself. Enjolras and Courfeyrac are there to remind him he never needs to. Power Trio Friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courageous Trinity

**July 30, 1830**

It is early in the morning when Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre half stumble into Courfeyrac’s rooms, the nearest and therefore the first choice when they were dead on their feet. Somehow, Courfeyrac still has some semblance of energy as they enter.

“I told the others they could come here as well,” he says, tossing his filthy, soot-covered and powder burnt jacket to the floor of his rooms. “But they all saw fit to go back to their own rooms. I don’t blame them, Feuilly looked about to pass out right in the street, though he still looked joyous through his exhaustion. What do you suspect will happen now, Enjolras?”

“I don’t think there will be any other option but for Charles to abdicate,” Enjolras replies, removing his own jacket and hanging it uselessly on the coat rack; it’s ruined in any case. “This was a direct result of his actions. He dissolved Parliament and held off on the elections. He passed those heinous July Ordinances with Polignac. Whether or not he believes his life in danger, I suspect he will be forced to give up the throne. His palace has been invaded and the people have spoken most clearly.”

“I suppose the question now is whether or not this is the end of the monarchy or simply the end of Charles,” Courfeyrac muses. “I shall hope for both.”

“We shall have to wait and see what the provisional government does,” Combeferre says, ever patient, but Enjolras doesn’t miss an extra layer of fatigue in his voice that speaks to something more than the exhausted exhilaration they all feel. “But I have hope that this, at the very least, will be some progress, rather than the multiple steps backward Charles was taking. Though we obviously wish for the end of any throne, there’s been some talk about putting a Bourbon in power, obviously with a parliament and a great many other provisions I imagine, but… well, we shall see.”

“France has proved once more that the people speak through revolution when pushed to the brink,” Enjolras says, nodding in agreement. “That is not something so easily ignored, successful or not, and this was successful.”

Courfeyrac rummages through his drawers, finding three spare nightshirts that manage to fit each of them; he’s insisted they stay, there’s room in his bed besides. They each wash up, but even as he and Courfeyrac discuss the three days of fighting, discuss the potential outcomes, Combeferre remains quiet, staring off into some kind of unknown horizon, hazel eyes mired down in thought beyond the edges of his spectacles. Sharing a look with Courfeyrac, Enjolras turns to Combeferre, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Combeferre?” he questions, startled when Combeferre jumps back.

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre says with a quick smile. “I didn’t mean to jump. All the loud noises over the past few days must have made me sensitive. Is there something the matter?”

“I was going to ask you the same,” Enjolras replies, turning Combeferre around to face him. “You’re awfully quiet. You have been ever since we left from attending to the wounded, yet before then you were as exhilarated as Courfeyrac and myself.”

“I’m simply tired,” Combeferre says, trying that same smile again, the smile that doesn’t fool Enjolras or Courfeyrac.

“You are a worse liar than me,” Courfeyrac says, sitting down on his bed and gesturing for the other two to join him. “And even I will admit I’m quite dreadful.”

“It’s childish and silly,” Combeferre says with a wave of his hand. “Don’t be bothered about it.”

“We’re bothered because we want to know what’s troubling you,” Enjolras replies, sitting down next to Courfeyrac and gazing up at Combeferre, who still stands, hesitant.

Both of them gaze long and hard at Combeferre until he has little choice but to give in with two sets of eyes refusing to abate their stares; one green, one blue.

“It was just something one of the men in the medical tent said to me,” Combeferre says, finally sitting on the edge of the bed. “I was bandaging up one of the wounded, I believe the two of you were helping Joly with someone more gravely injured, and he… well he must have seen me hesitate with a gun at the start of the fighting. Hesitating to fire, I mean. He said it looked like I’d never seen a gun before, which of course is ridiculous, I have obviously seen and handled a gun before, I have no trouble with physically firing a gun, my aim is quite good actually, but I… I only…”

Enjolras puts his hand over Combeferre’s own, ceasing his rambling speech.

Combeferre looks up from where he’d fixed his gaze on his now bare feet. Enjolras doesn’t let go of his hand, tugging slightly in order to make Combeferre sit down. Combeferre obliges, sitting down in the space between Courfeyrac and Enjolras.

“It is of little surprise you’d hesitate with a gun,” Enjolras finally says after surveying him for a moment, tilting his head, gaze piercing as ever as if he’s trying to read directly into Combeferre’s mind as he’s so apt at doing. “None of us but Bahorel have ever fought on a barricade or experienced this kind of revolt before. We’ve read, we’ve studied, we’ve prepared, but the actual reality of it is something different.”

“You didn’t hesitate,” Combeferre says quickly, an uncharacteristic insecurity in his eyes. “Courfeyrac didn’t hesitate.”

Enjolras watches as Courfeyrac covers Combeferre’s other hand, empathy in glimmering in his eyes.

“You are neither of us, Combeferre,” he says, voice soft as a small smile eases onto his lips. “Nor would we wish you to be. Why does this bother you so much?”

Combeferre pauses, looking between them for a moment before responding.

“A few seconds hesitation on my part could cost one of our comrades his life,” Combeferre says, voice heavy with guilt. “It could cost me my life. It is cowa…”

“Stop,” Enjolras says, a very rare interruption on his part. “Do not even finish that sentence. You are the absolute last person in the world who could ever call themselves a coward.”

“Hear, hear!” Courfeyrac exclaims, nudging Combeferre gently in the ribs with his elbow.

“Then why did I hesitate?” Combeferre says, pulling back so that he can look at both of them. “The man was in front of me, coming directly at me with a bayonet and I only shot just in time even though I saw him coming at least thirty seconds before.”

“Because violence has never been a part of you,” Enjolras says simply, but his tone brims with kindness. “You turn yourself inside out in order to commit violence because you know that right now, that is a large part of enacting any revolution. You see and long for the world when these kinds of battles are no longer needed. When men might talk and compromise rather than draw weapons against each other.”

“So do you,” Combeferre argues. “The three of talk on this all the time. That is the end we all hope for.”

“That’s very true,” Enjolras agrees, nodding. “It pains me that violence is the only way, and I abhor having to commit it. Every shot fired felt like a rip in my heart, but it also felt like a step forward into that future the three of us and our friends, our comrades, all dream of, each one felt like a defense of the comrades standing beside me. But where I see the larger view, you see each individual person involved, on either side. You consider the man in front of you, his family, what he’s leaving behind. You have taught me to consider the details as I have taught you to consider the expansive picture. They are differences, not better or worse. I’d say Courfeyrac is the middle point between us. Together, we balance. We learn, we expand our horizons.”

“That’s why you hesitated,” Courfeyrac says, stepping in where Enjolras left off and nodding firmly at his words. “But I know for certain that if that solider had been barreling toward Enjolras, toward me, toward any of our friends, you wouldn’t have hesitated. You are as fierce in your defense of your friends as either of us.”

Enjolras sees the tension in Combeferre’s shoulders relax a bit, the crux of the matter silently reached.

“In my mind it makes you the bravest of us all,” Enjolras says, squeezing Combeferre’s hand. “And should I ever hear anyone dispute it, I shall have words with them. Hopefully there would be no need for fists, but Bahorel has taught me well if need be.” Enjolras catches Combeferre’s eye, a glint of humor there, but he’s also perfectly serious.

At this, Combeferre chuckles. He wraps an arm around Enjolras and Courfeyrac both, and all three of them are drawn into a three way embrace, breathing in the knowledge that they are still here, that they have all lived to fight another day together, the friendship between them growing even stronger, growing more powerful, into a force to be reckoned with.

“Were I not so tired I would argue that the two of  _you_  are the most courageous men I know,” he says, smiling at each of them in turn. “But you are also the most stubborn, particularly when together, so all right. I will accept your words.”

“I have no idea about this claim of us being stubborn,” Courfeyrac says, smirking. “Can you imagine it, Enjolras?” He asks, leaning over to meet Enjolras’ eyes, his own filled with mirth as Enjolras’ lips quirk upward in amusement. “You and me, stubborn. Never heard of such a thing.”

“Oh, never,” Enjolras says, biting his lip to keep from grinning as Combeferre rolls his eyes. “I’ve never heard that before, from anyone.”

“Oh,” Combeferre tuts, swatting the both of them. “Enough sass, I’m too tired for the two of you. This bed is not nearly all that big, Courfeyrac, it might be a better idea for one of us to sleep on the chaise.”

“Never,” Courfeyrac says. “I have just survived a three day rebellion and I will not be denied the close presence of my two dearest friends no matter what you say. Now shove over, it’s my bed and I want the middle. That way I won’t lose all the blankets when you inevitably steal them. You do it all the time when all of fall asleep in our various apartments studying or writing pamphlets or what not and it leaves me out in the cold. Enjolras kicks, but I suppose I can deal with that.”

“He  _supposes_  he can deal with that when he piles us all into this bed,” Combeferre says, but he smiles as he lifts up the covers, looking up at Enjolras.

“Mmm,” Enjolras says, a happy light in his eyes mixing in with the physical weariness and excitement at the idea that important things are happening just beyond the confines of this apartment, a zeal to continue on but knowing he needs the rest, that they must wait for news.

After a few moments Courfeyrac is wedged contentedly between his two best friends, one hand grasping Combeferre’s, the other looped through Enjolras’ arm. There is silence for a moment, bittersweet melancholy washing over each of them in its own way, these three young men, this trinity of the revolution: a silence for their lost comrades, a silence for the lives lost on the other side of the battle, a silence for the unknown future ahead, a silence for the other members of Les Amis, their dearest friends, resting after nearly four days of fighting, a silence in acknowledgment that the battle isn’t over.

But they are alive, they have each other, and they have a fiery hope for the future that nothing can ever douse out, their voices raised in unity for a cause that embodies everything they are, together and apart.

For now, as they fall asleep into scattered dreams, that is enough.


End file.
